


Caught

by 13atoms (2Atoms)



Category: The Great (TV 2020)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, NSFW, Smut, finally writing for the correct layout of Orlo's room, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:22:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27642035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2Atoms/pseuds/13atoms
Summary: Request: the reader hides in orlo's room to scare him only to get stuck in there while he's pleasuring himself
Relationships: Count Orlo / Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Caught

As Orlo had parted ways with you to guide a drunken Velementov back to his rooms, before he spewed any words which would see his head on a chopping block, you had seen an opportunity.

Your little run of harmless pranks against one another had reached a head that night after he had snuck assorted seafood into your drink, making you splutter and cough as you inhaled a prawn.

After a moment of panic he had gone too far, the cheeky smirk on his face had made you narrow your eyes in challenge. You had to one up him.

As soon as the Count was distracted you ran to his room, tiptoeing until you were far enough from earshot for your steps to become louder. Once inside his rooms it was simple work to sneak behind a curtain, hiding yourself effectively from him, shivering from the coldness of the windows behind your back.

It would be simple, you plotted, to wait until you heard him step inside and near the window. Then you could simply jump out and scare him. You bit your lip at the thought of how he would jump and scream, stifling a laugh at the thought of finally getting payback after a mouthful of salty seafood had rather ruined your enjoyment of your wine.

It would be easy and simple, harmless, you rationalised.

How wrong you were.

It took longer than you expected for the Count to return to his rooms, and you were chilled to the bone by the time you heard him sigh, the door closing behind him. He seemed sad, you realised, even in the way his footsteps plodded across the floor and his breath left him in heavy exhales.

Unable to see him, you mentally pictured how he was moving across the room, hoping he might near the curtains so you could enact your prank.

And hopefully go some way to distract him from the melancholy which was breaking your heart to witness.

With a groan you heard him pull his shirt off, followed by his breaches. Both articles of clothing fell to the ground dully after a brief struggle with buttons. _Oh, fuck_.

Dully, you realised you should likely make your presence known before he striped down further. Yet, the embarrassment of being caught in such a childish moment now seemed too much.

Perhaps he was simply undressing for bed?

You would sneak out after he had fallen asleep, your attempt at a jape never found out.

Surely, that would be fine.

You restrained the urge to sneak a look, to figure out what Orlo was doing, as he threw himself down onto his bed. He gave a groan of relief, fidgeting for a moment in bed before settling.

There was more quiet rustling, but you could no longer hear what was happening. He was too far from you.

Hesitantly, you pulled the curtains aside, the slight moon not bright enough to reveal you in the near-darkness of the room. Your eyes took a second to adjust to the orange-flicker of candlelight, before you spotted him laid back on is bed.

You bit back a gasp at the sight before you.

He was wearing only his shirt, his hair loose and brushed free around him, his eyes closed as he faced up at the ceiling above his bed. The privacy curtains which closed around his bed were open.

Guilt pulsed through you as you realised he must truly think he was alone, and you quickly averted your eyes from the expanse of his hair-strewn thighs, the junction of his hips and his torso, and his semi-erectness.

Closing your eyes tightly, you panicked. You could not walk out now, your explanation risking the Count’s awkwardness and an undoubtedly irreparable shift in your friendship. He was, after all, not the most confident man in the palace. Though you felt he had nothing to be ashamed of, you were sure embarrassment would eat him alive if he knew of your presence.

A moan emanated from the man, deep and desperate.

You did not have to peer around the curtains to know he had taken himself in hand.

Clenching your own thighs and forcing yourself not to shiver or allow your teeth of chatter as cold air snuck through the glass window, you tried not to imagine the sight which you were a mere piece of fabric from seeing.

You imaged his jaw clenched, his lips muttering along with his mind as he stroked himself. Would he slicken his hand with saliva, groaning a name as he teased himself?

What was he fantasizing on, you wondered?

And about whom?

Another moan, louder this time, confirmed what Orlo was doing. There was a startlingly animalistic growl to him, a sound which excited you as he moaned again, louder this time.

You could hear him as he worked his hand across himself, his moans becoming breathier, breathier, more desperate.

Then all the noise stopped.

People walked past in the corridor outside. There was the quiet sound of your own breath, the pant of Orlo.

Nothing.

The fight against your body shutting down from the coolness of being between the window and curtain was as vicious one, but you stood your ground for minutes, counting the seconds and forcing yourself not to move to stay warm as you waiting for the Count to fall asleep.

You stepped out of your shoes, silently picking them up in one hand, waging a mental war with yourself as you tried to convince yourself he would be asleep.

The Count made no other noise, his breathing slowing.

It was time to go, you told yourself. Time to leave and hope you could meet Orlo’s eye some time in the next year.

You hoped he would not somehow know. You feared he might never forgive you.

As you snuck the curtain aside and made a dash for the door, your eyes locked with the Count’s. He had not moved, his hand flung beside his hip. He was still erect, and you realised you had mistimed your trip. He had not allowed himself to finish, not immediately drifted off as you assumed.

It took a moment of realisation before you dragged your eyes back to his face, embarrassment burning hot inside of you, alongside another pleasantly warm feeling you were hesitant to place.

“Hello,” he greeted hoarsely, tugging to pull free the sheets of his bed.

After a moment of struggle, the angle awkward as he laid flat on his back, he succeeded in covering himself.

“I was hiding to scare you, I am so sorry, I will leave and you will never had to see me again and you can finish what you were,” you coughed, mortified as the words refused to stop leaving your mouth, “you can finish what you were doing.”

“You certainly scared me.”

He was surprisingly calm, an abundance of time spent with Peter apparently enough to steel his nerves in a situation as non-life-threatening as this.

Despite everything, you laughed at his quip.

With an awkward gesture using the hand which was clutching your shoes, you gestured to the door.

“I will just... go. We need never speak of this again. I am so sorry, again.”

“It is no bother.”

Orlo lay his head back on the bed, speaking to the ceiling with such loudness you were astonished. If you did not know him better you would have assumed he had been drinking with Velementov.

“I thought I had imagined you,” he threw out. “It would not be the first time.”

As you struggled to understand his meaning for a second, you couldn’t help but stare at the blanket which covered him, his hand strewn across his thighs to keep it in place. A strip of brown skin between the ridden-up hem of his shirt and the blankets was visible, and you fought to pull your eyes from it.

“Who says you have not?” you tried, your fingers almost aching with the grip you had on your shoes.

As he had up to look at you, the blankets shifted further, more of the delicate skin where his hips met his torso was revealed. You were openly staring now, as Orlo regarded you with heavy eyelids and parted lips.

“I suppose you might be a figment of my imagination. Mere fantasy. You are, after all, a dream.”

His words were deceptively lazy as they rolled off his tongue, yet somehow a summons. Your shoes hit the ground with a clatter, making you jump.

You had not even realised you had released your grip on them.

“Perhaps you can show me more of this dream,” you suggested, already putting one foot in front of the other.

Somehow he seemed magnetic, as though you had seen him in this state of unselfconscious vulnerability countless times before, and were simply stepping into your role in the dance.

One hand reached out to you, an invitation to a waltz, and you crossed the room to take it.

“I would be my honour,” he drawled. “Close your eyes, and we can begin.”


End file.
